Chapter 86

 

New York, 1984

 

On his belly in the center of the bed, Gavin squirmed about on the silky spread, enjoying the sensations created. He watched his sister apply a touch of beige toner to her cheeks. “Why do you have to go away to school? Why can’t you go to Saint Bridget’s with me?”

“Cause it’s a school for little squirts. I’m all grown up.” In the mirror, Deirdre paused in her concentration, to notice the unhappiness on the small face and laughed. “Hey, don’t get so worked up. I’m not leaving for good. I’ll be home on weekends and holidays. Maybe Dad will let you come with me to Ulster for Christmas.”

“Where’s Ulster?”

“In Ireland, another country, I was born there.” She lied unintentionally for Deirdre just disliked the fact she’d been born in England.

“Like I was born in New Mexico?” His pout deepened. “Don’t kids ever stay where they’re borned?”

Coming to plop down beside her small brother, she answered, “Guess most do—you and me, we’re just weird. Our grandpa lives in Ulster—you’re going to like him a lot. And don’t forget Ann will be here when I’m gone. You want to drive up to school with me?”

This brought her a smile and rapidly shaking head. “Okay, I’ll bug Pop,” was promised.

Deirdre changed the subject. “How was yesterday?” He answered with only a shrug. “You spent the afternoon with Mrs. Whatever?” She couldn’t be bothered remembering the name Gavin knew his grandmother by.

“Okay, I guess. We went to the zoo. We didn’t stay long.” He giggled remembering, “Mizharris kept wrinkling her nose; she said the animals stink. Did you see the bike she got me? Its got a horse head and its eyes light—”

“Mike already got you a bike.”

“I know. But I didn’t tell her. Ann said that was smart ‘cause I’d hurt her feelings.”

“Yah, I suppose.”

“We had lunch at this funny res’rant where people were dressed like cartoon characters. I didn’t like the food much,” Gavin said. Then dropped back to roll some more as he giggled. “She didn’t make me eat like Mike does.”

“You like her?” Deirdre found the idea amusing, “Her being old and black?”

Kicking his legs in the air, the boy tumbled over on his belly and lay for a second considering. “I don’t know. She’s okay, I guess. She likes me; she’s always buying me stuff.”

“Come see what I got for you?” She headed for her dressing table.

Gavin scrambled off the bed to follow. “What is it?” He studied the offering she held forth.

“A tape recorder. You talk into it. See, you push in these two buttons…” She explained the operation and soon the fascinated youngster was talking into the machine and giggling as his voice was thrown back at him.

“I can keep it?”

“It’s yours. I’ve got my own. It’s so you can send me tapes like letters because you don’t write so good. Then I’ll send you answers cause you hear better than you read. Now let me finish up.” There was no more room for further questions as Michael O’Neill maneuvered a blockade of overflowing boxes and gained entrance to Deirdre’s room.

“What’s all this mess?”

“Junk. Stella said for me to clean my closets. Or she was going to start pitching my things out herself.” Deirdre tossed some half dried color makers into the heap. Her small brother quickly rescued them.

“They’re no good,” she said, “don’t make a mess.”

Curling Indian fashion on the floor he ignored the order and drew a red cross on his own palm.

“No you don’t.” His father confiscated the markers. But faced by the unhappy pout, handed them back with the new order, “write on paper.”

“Use this.” Deirdre tossed him an old note pad and for all of five minutes the child was absorbed with creating weird masterpieces. Then Gavin dropped the yellow marker and his sister yelped, “Look what you did,” as she jumped up to rescue a green rug that was turning brown beneath the marker.

His father grabbed the markers and tossed them back in the trash. “Let’s get this junk out of here.” He stuck his head out the door and bellowed for aid.

Gavin crawled back on the bed watching as the servants emptied the room of trash. Glancing at his son, O’Neill noticed, “Tears? Why? It was an accident. The rug can be cleaned.”

But Gavin was crying in earnest now. “Don’t wanna go to no old ‘ro’ce’al school.”

“What?”

“Oh,” Deirdre offered. “He’s upset about school. Thinks it’s a reformatory.”

“Damn! Girl! What did you tell him?”

“Not me, I didn’t tell him anything.”

And the man drew his son on to his lap as he explained. “Saint Bridget’s is like any other school. It’s just like your school in Tucumcari; only it has nuns for teachers and costs a bundle to go there.”

“Nuns hit little kids,” was said around a sniffle.

“Who told you that?”

Gavin only shrugged for no one had in fact told him exactly that. Private! Parochial! His grandmother’s terms frightened him because he hadn’t understood them—she had laid a foundation of fear in the child.

“There’s nothing sinister about a private school,” Deirdre came to her father’s aid. “I went there. I survived.”

“You’re a girl, nobody hits little girls.”

“Oh, no?” She laughed and dropped beside them. “Any way, Jas and Bri went there too.”

“They did?”

“You bet!” she squealed. “The only person you have to worry about clobbering you is this old meany.” She flung her arms around her father’s neck. Taken by surprise, he tumbled backwards as his offspring attacked. Ripe laughter filled the room as the big man pretended to be at their mercy.

~~~

 

Thomas Devlin was mildly pleased by the shift in The O’Neill’s mood of late.

    Age must be mellowing the bastard, he thought as he joined him in his office. “You got it below zero in here,” he complained and chanced switching the air-conditioning down.

“Hate this damn humid weather,” O’Neill said but allowed the action. Taking two frosty Michelobs from a convenient cooler, he tossed one to Devlin and uncapped the other. “If you didn’t promise the old broad a weekly visit?” He halted as if something had occurred to him. “What did she tell the kid?”

“Concerning what?”

“School?”

“School? Nothing much. I don’t remember.” Devlin rolled the beer between his palms in an attempt to warm it. “She asked which one he was to attend. Didn’t seem thrilled with your choice of Saint Bridget’s.”

“Hell! You were there to watch what she said to Gavin.”

“Come on, Mike, Candace Nelson couldn’t have been more careful. She’s got nothing to gain by upsetting Gavin. Every second word out of the kid’s mouth was Mike.” Tasting the beer, he decided his insides could tolerate it and swallowed. “She’s not stupid. She’s aware nobody is going to score points with your son by knocking you.”

O’Neill finished his own beer and dropped the can in the trash. “Kid’s a little upset,” he admitted. “Probably because it’s a new school.”

Without asking for an explanation, Devlin announced. “Mike, you’re one damn lucky bastard. What do you say to a clear cut title to your kid?”

“What are you babbling?”

Devlin reached for his briefcase, flipped it open, and extracted several documents before he answered. “The originals.” He waved the papers. “What the Clarks had in their possession was an office copy of Gavin’s birth record; they don’t list the parents on them. Andy kept the originals.” He tossed the parchment on the desk. “Would you believe I found them when I was cleaning out some of her stuff she kept in my files cabinets,” he said. “Thought they were just tax copies and such.”

O’Neill smoothed the rolled document. “Holy Mother Mary!” as his eyes rested on the notation, FATHER, and the name so accurately entered after it, Michael Liam Bannon O’Neill. He clutched the paper as if it had a voice. “Can this keep the law and Mama Nelson off my ass?”

“It will go a long way. So will this help. Andy had the kid baptized Catholic only with your name not hers.” He laid down the second document. “Gavin under Cannon law was never a Nelson. He was baptized Gavin Michael O’Neill. Since Andrea, his mother, named you as the paternal parent at birth; even taking care to confirm his right to your name in baptism, and it seems the boy is more than willing to accept you, it would have to be a cold-blooded bastard who’d try to take the kid away from you.”

“They’re using Fitzgerald.”

“He’s a prick, but only where you’re concerned. I can deal with him—he owes me. But this is all about blood and bone and we have the proof. Fitzgerald has got to play it your way. Maybe now it won’t even go to court. Mrs. Nelson would lose if this was brought out in the open; it would destroy some of her hold on the Connors’.”

“You still looking at a deal?”

“Why not? It can’t hurt Gavin.” Devlin grinned. “We don’t want to disenfranchise your son’s granny. Connors can afford her.”

“Tom, you’re a bastard.” O’Neill shook his head. “That old lady’s got more money than God could spend.”

“Not the spending; it’s the having, the manipulating, the feeling of security and power the money gives. The money!” Tom reached for the phone.

O’Neill studied Devlin curiously. “What are you up too?”

Devlin waved him to silence.

“Sullivan, Tom Devlin,” he said. He listened while a nasty grin spread across his mouth. Finally he laughed. “Not exactly fond of you either lad. Got a question? How much cash did you find among Andrea’s possessions? So don’t tell me,” came after a brief pause. “I’ll tell you. You should have come across at least four or five grand. It wouldn’t have been together, she kept several billfolds.”

Again a pause.

“Another thing? Did you locate her passbooks? Hell no! There should have been six or seven others.” Tom Devlin hesitated, and then admitted, “I’m not sure; but she kept plenty of cash.” He laughed again before he said, “You promise to hide the rubber hose.” He grew serious, “I’ll be busy until Friday morning. Three o’clock on Friday afternoon. Storm’s office.”

“What was that all about?” O’Neill demanded as Devlin hung up the phone.

“Odd,” Devlin said. “They only found one passbook with fifty grand. Her checking account had a balance of less than twenty thousand. They haven’t checked further. With her salary, and high living, it seemed reasonable and it never occurred to them there was a whole lot more.”

“And you figure if the money’s gone, someone cleaned it out. That someone would have had to know Andrea damn good. Tom, you could be setting yourself up again? Maybe it wasn’t smart letting the cops in on how much you knew about Andrea’s finances.”

“The doper didn’t kill her Mike. They’ve known that all along and they’re not going to stop harassing until they smoke out a new prey. Can’t let them keep dropping hints about me or Raymond Connors is going to decide I’m expendable. Maybe I can turn their scent towards a better target.”

“You’re a smart prick,” O’Neill warned. “Just don’t outsmart yourself.”

 “Too much at stake,” Devlin said. Then he frowned and asked, “Mike, you know where the Chief of NYPD or the DA live?”

 “Yeah.”

 “I do too, no reason why, but I do. But do you have a clue to the home address of Captain of Detectives Walters?”

“No, should I?”

“Don’t you see, that’s not an address that most people would likely know? I’m certain it wouldn’t be battered around. The case Andrea’s journals were boxed in, hell, you don’t call or enter that boutique with a thousand dollar limit on your charge cards. When I was going through her stuff, I found a lot of old statements and noticed a number of charges to the place—only a few of the addresses rang a bell, like Shelia’s and my own. But it got me thinking, the person who sent those books doesn’t necessarily have to be wealthy. They could have received a gift in that carton.”

“For that matter, Tom, Andrea could have recycled the box herself to store the books before she gave them to someone else to keep for her. Who did she trust that much?”

“Surely, not anyone mentioned in the books.” Devlin gave a cutting laugh before he finished. “They would have made a nice fire if I got a hold of them.”

“Shelia comes to mind, as far as the trusting part goes. She and Andrea were damn chummy. Unlikely Shelia would have used the knowledge to hurt anyone in her family. Beechen could have gotten his hands on them though.”

“That came to me, but I don’t think so. Shelia wasn’t missing when the books were sent, and if Beechen wanted to start trouble he would have sent them to the DA. It’s the location they were sent to that has been confusing me. Walter’s home address, why?”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, a cop would know Walter’s address or could find it easy enough. Hal Dexter?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, Mike. But according to Sullivan, it was the judge Dexter owed allegiance to not his daughter.”

“He may not have associated Andrea’s characterization with a man he thought of as so different. He may have realized her biological daddy was white, figured he abused her, and the judge came into her life later—like he did his. The names and actions that people Andrea’s tales I understand read like sex novels. Remember no one has yet tied up a Connors to any of her descriptions.”

Devlin tossed back a sharp laugh. “Right. The only characters matched to their profile were the poor judge and me.”